


Cat and Mouse

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 06:42:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6645613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: Prompt- It has been a year since Team Machine had taken down Samaritan and all its operatives, except one: Martine. Now, Martine has managed to kidnap Root in order to get at Shaw (She did promise to kill them together). While Martine taunts a captive Root, Shaw is desperate to find her. Shaw gets so frustrated at their lack of leads that she even points her gun at Harold to try and get him to get the Machine to talk. They find where Root is and save her, and Shaw fights Martine to the death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cat and Mouse

_'Where were you last night?'_

_'Working the numbers.'_

_'And you didn't invite me?'_

Shaw rolls the hypothetical conversation around her head as she lays under the covers, staring straight at the ceiling. She wonders where Root could be- _somewhere close like DownTown, or watching a relevant number in the farthest stretches of the United States?_ Root hadn't answered her phone the night previous, and Shaw thought nothing much of it. _She's busy helping Harold, or Reese, or the Machine_. Yet, as the night hours dwindled into early morning, moths of concern began to eat away at her edges. _Root would've called if she was going to be out this late, wouldn't she? What would cause her to not answer, and not return the call?_ Shaw's eyes flickered between the ceiling and the night stand, watching and waiting in the darkness for her cellphone to emit a small glow, a buzz- anything. Nothing came.

But now, with the purple and orange fingers of the sunrise climbing her walls and creeping into her bed, she can lie still no longer. Sitting, she rolls the sleep from her neck and stretches her back, deciding the best plan of attack. The most logical explanation.

 _It's not like Samaritan took her,_ Shaw thinks with both a flash of horror and a silent smile of relief. She remembers her time in captivity- trapped in like an animal and poked and prodded like a lab rat. For over a year she lived in and out of white-walled hospitals and dark rooms with no windows. Sometimes she'd try to count the hours in those places where no sunlight ever touched her skin, but it seemed time, like freedom, eluded her. _But Samaritan could not have taken her_ , Shaw clarifies- justifies- to herself. _And why?_

_Because Samaritan is dead._

* * *

 

Operative after operative went down with bullet holes in their knees and terror burned into their brains. Seeing their precious test subject coming back to ruin them all. Of course, though, she wasn't alone. Root, eyes burning with bloodlust and a need for revenge Shaw'd never seen before, was all too eager to mow her way through countless operatives. John Reese had a similar flame catching in his eyes, only his mixed with a protective worry over both Shaw and Root. Lionel Fusco, not too sure what he was walking into but stubborn and adamant enough to be allowed on board, Shaw'd be lying if she said he didn't do a damn good job. Day in and day out, defense became offense as the Team struck closer to the heart of it all. That one thing to be stopped. That one Artificial Intelligence.

It was a warm June day as they crept into a high security asylum, not one unlike Shaw's old confinement, where they saw him. The back of his head with his gray hair still impeccably cut, dark suit crisp as a thick cloud of smoke roiled up towards the ceiling, evanescing into the darkness. He didn't turn around. His eyes were locked on a blindingly white projection that took up an entire wall, cameras canvasing an entire city with white circles and red triangles. There were only two of them left. Only him and Martine Rousseau.

 _'You may have been the father to the next generation,'_ Greer said, ancient voice traveling softly to them- to Harold. _'But mine was the god meant to bring it order.'_

There was the pop of a gun, the flash of a loaded barrel, the crimson splash of blood mixing in with the white projection. A cigar fell from his hand as he dropped to the floor, gun clattering away. _Greer was dead._ And seven long hours of code breaking and relentless hacking later, so was Samaritan.

Rolling out of bed and throwing on some clothes, Shaw escapes the apartment, holding her peacoat tighter to her body as a biting wind digs its way under her skin and into her bones. She walks across the streets freely, passing every average New Yorker, knowing that none of them have a clue. None of them know about the Machine or Samaritan, none of them are secret operatives ready to strike out and kill her. No, as she crosses each street and shuffles down each sidewalk, she feels the release of no longer having to skate along the shadow map. Finally free. Every day for a year, she'd been free.

Coming into the subway station, Shaw peers about the tiled floors and yellow ceiling lights. Her eyes flicker over the empty terminal bench, and the equally empty subway car. Typing greets her ears, and Shaw heads towards a large desk filled with computer screens and attached at all sides to wires. Harold's head is bowed as he types and searches the screen, blue eyes darting behind his dark glasses. Shaw stands quiet a moment before breaking the silence.

"Any new numbers?" Shaw asks, causing Harold to start with surprise. Looking her over, he turns back to the monitors.

"Not yet," he replies, fingers falling back into rhythm over the keys. His eyes peek over for a second, then back. "Is Ms. Groves with you?" He asks, and every fiber of Shaw's muscles tenses.

"I thought maybe she was with you," Shaw replies, forcing her voice to come off as nonchalantly as possible. Yet, with Harold freezing, chair slowly rolling to face her, she knows nothing is alright. "Did she say she was going anywhere?" Shaw asks him, hoping that he'll say yes. Hoping that he'll have a lead. _I'm an idiot,_ Shaw hisses to herself. All night, coming home from her cover job with Root assuring her that everything was taken care of; to sleep and Root would see her soon _. I should have came here as soon as she didn't answer the phone._

"She said... she was going home. For the night." He tells her with a hollow voice. _Shit._

"I'll call her again," Shaw mutters, already pulling out her phone and dialing. She listens with broken patience and worry morphed into agitation as it rings. And rings. And rings.

"Shaw? Shaw." Root's voice is urgent in her ear, and Shaw instantly goes on alert, locking eyes with Harold.

"Root, where are you," Shaw demands, the tone of Root's voice and the sound of hard breathing catching Shaw off guard. Something is terribly wrong.

"You have to get off the line no-" There is shuffling, then silence.

"Root. _Root_ , what the _Hell_ is going on." Harold rises slowly, but Shaw shoes him back into his seat, irritably mouthing the words 'Trace. It.' He complies, fingers flying over the keyboard as a map and a small black box pop onto the screen. He types in the box and hits enter, the map instantly pinging circles that start small and spread out over the United States.

"Root."

" _Sorry_ , Sameen, but she's taking a nap right now." The woman's oily voice sends a cold shudder snaking down Shaw's spine, and goosebumps race across her arms. She breathes in, but it burns and knives slice into her lungs as the entire room drops twenty degrees. Hold tightening around the phone, Shaw's mouth tugs into a vicious sneer.

_Martine Rousseau._

"I will _find_ you," Shaw snarls lowly into the receiver, knuckles turning white. Peering at the computer screen, she sees that the search has been narrowed to the northern east coast. "And I will _end_ you."

A bone chilling chuckle radiates from the line, and Shaw can feel her muscles coiling to the breaking point, body ready to shake with rage. She wants nothing more than to shove her fist into the phone and ring Martine's neck through the line.

"How adorably _naive_ of you to think you could ever kill _me_ ," Martine coos. "How about this: when you find me, come for me, and I'll kill you and your little girlfriend together. How does _that_ sound?" Shaw's barely breathing, barely able to hold onto a shred of her composure as smoke pours from her nose and ears and her eyes see red.

"You lay a hand on her, and I'll snap your neck like a _toothpick_ ," Shaw threatens, teeth grinding as she impatiently watches the computer screen. _Why is it taking so long to find her? Why is the Machine taking so long?_

"Now, _now_ ," Martine chastises with the click of her tongue. "Keep up an attitude like that, and I'll lay _more_ than a just a _hand_ on her." Shaw's eyes narrow just as the tracer hones in on New York. _She's in New York- Root is in New York._ There is a small groan on the other end of the line, and Martine sighs. "I'd love to stay and chat," Martine tells her, almost sympathetically. "But the little devil is waking up, and I have much planned for the two of us."

"Martine, I swear-"

"We'll talk soon, Honey."

The line goes dead, and Shaw throws her phone to the wall, watching the screen shatter against the yellowed tiles. The light blue pulses on the map cease, turning red as they solidify an area of 54,556 square miles. Root could be in any square mile of New York State.

_____\ If Your Number's Up /_____

Two weeks had passed, with Shaw and a car and a vengeance burning deep in her veins. Up and down she'd driven, chasing after leads she didn't have and pushing herself to the brink of insanity for something- anything.

Harold, John, and Fusco had tried to keep her mind off things in their own ways. Finch would offer her a number, which she'd always spit at and leave. Only one person is relevant to her, and that person's number hasn't come up. Yet. And Shaw would make damn certain it never does. She's pissed at the Machine, and wouldn't be helping _it_ until _it_ helped Root. John Reese, much more cautious of the situation, tried convincing Shaw every now and again that yes, they should find Root but no, they could not do that just yet. He tried to convince her that, like Martine had said, she would kill them together, making Root- for the moment- safe.

 _Not safe enough,_ Shaw murmurs to herself, eyes narrowing as she presses down on the gas pedal. Shaw's mind flashes with all the things they'd done to her- all the things Martine could so easily be doing to Root. The needles, the electric shocks, the constant, relentless torture. No, Root had been tortured once, she'd be damned if she were to let it happen again. And then, an idea breaking into her head, Shaw cuts a sharp U-turn to the honking of other drivers, and she races for one place, one set destination.

_It's about time I pay a visit to my old boss._

_____\ We'll Find You /_____

Sameen Shaw, stretching her hand forward, rips a black sack off of Control's head, revealing Control's black eye and split lip. Could Shaw have merely tazed her once and gotten the job done? Sure. But she'd waited a long time for some payback, and this really hadn't been a good two weeks for her.

Control flips the matted hair from her face before making a small thrashing movement, hands and feet bound to a cold, metal chair. Control blinks a few times against the single lamp glowing into her face, the rest of the abandoned warehouse perilously dark. Her eyes focus in on Shaw, and she stops fidgeting.

"What do you want from me," Control demands flatly, a pompous air surfacing in her face as she looks Shaw over tastelessly. Shaw begins to walk a slow circle around her, dark smirk all the more devious under the thrown shadows of the black space, her heels echoing in the absolute emptiness.

"Do you remember Root?" Shaw asks, although she already knows the answer. Control's head snaps back to look at her, following Shaw back to the forefront of her vision.

"Crazy bitch, right?" Control taunts with a cruel smile. "Don't _tell_ me you're still tag teaming with _her_." Shaw smiles at her a moment, then leans in perilously close, smile gone and eyes like daggers. Control's smirk drops instantly.

"I am," Shaw answers in a dangerous voice, eyes catching the lamplight like flames of Hell. "Or, I would be. But _someone_ took her. Someone _you_ can help me find." Control looks as if she's about to chuckle, but swallows it down, Shaw's menacing features too close to her face to test her any further.

"And why would _I_ help _you_ ," Control snarls, and Shaw, with a harrowing laugh, pulls away.

"I think after having me killed, you owe me a favor."

"Oh, I don't owe you _shit_ , Shaw," Control spits.

"You used Samaritan like you used the Machine," Shaw comments coldly, eyes never leaving Control's. "I'm sure you knew they had their own operatives running in the background. So tell me, where is Martine Rousseau."

"I don't know who the _hell_ you're talking about," Control insists, and Shaw swoops in close once more, withdrawing her gun in one quick sweep, touching the icy barrel to Control's temple and flicking the safety off.

"I think you've forgotten who you're talking to," Shaw growls, nose nearly touching Control's. "I _will_ kill you. _Right_ here. _Right_ now. Unless you give me what I want." Control's lips fidget, fighting the urge to shy away from the cold metal that pushes into her skin.

"I can't help you," Control retorts, sweat breaking on her forehead. "Because I. Don't. Know." Shaw pushes away once again, coming behind Control, gun never leaving her temple. Shaw leans in once again, left hand resting on Control's shoulder as she puts her mouth close to Control's ear.

"What do you think will be going through Julia's mind when her mother's not there to pick her up after school today?" Shaw coos in her most sadistic voice. Control stiffens, breath catching. Shaw smiles, so close to Control's face that Control can feel it and shudders. "Do you think she'll know you're dead?" Shaw continues, voice barely audible but carrying the venom of a black mamba. "Or maybe, she'll think you abandoned her. Because, I mean," Shaw gives a short, bone chilling chuckle. "It's not like I'm going to let anyone find your body. You taught me _better_ than _that_."

"Go to Hell, Shaw," Control spits with trembling words.

"With all the things I've done, it's a possibility," Shaw responds coolly. "But I've got a mission to finish before I can let that happen.” Shaw clears her throat. “ _You_ , on the other hand, get the misfortune of making an untimely entrance _today_. Save a seat for me, okay?"

With that, Shaw stands clear, finger pulling down on the trigger as Control closes her eyes tightly.

"Stop! _Stop_ ," Shaw's eyes flicker up at the voice that swirls with disgust and mortification. Uneven footsteps rush forward quickly, until Harold Finch steps into the outer ring of light, eyes large and pleading.

"Don't you think it's about time you put a leash on all your little monsters, Harold?" Control cracks, all the while unable to keep the relief from her voice. He ignores her, attention fixed on Shaw.

"What good is it going to do Ms. Groves to kill her?" Harold asks, gesturing to Control weakly. Everything about him looks drained. Shaw says nothing, and he continues. "She couldn't possibly know any more than the Machine is telling her. Samaritan is gone, almost every operative is gone, and she never had a hand in Greer's business to begin with. There is nothing here that can help you find Ms. Groves."

"Even if that's true," Shaw responds, not moving from her stance. "Control is still a threat to us. She's tried to kill Root, and you, and me."

"Now is not the time to hold a grudge," Harold informs her sympathetically, and Shaw sneers, grip tightening on the gun in retaliation. "If she becomes a threat, the Machine will let us know," he assures her.

"How do you know?" Shaw spits, composure beginning to crumble. "The Machine won't tell us where Root is, what makes you think She'll tell us anything we _need_ to know?"

"It is not the Machine's job to protect us," Harold responds, voice rising. "I taught the Machine that the world is _not_ a game of _chess_. It cannot give more value to some than to others."

"You taught the Machine chess?" Shaw asks him, and- slowly- he nods. She takes a moment, thinking, then flicks the safety back onto her gun, stowing it in her waistband. Silently, Control takes the first inhalation she's dared to breathe since Harold's appearance. "I have a game of my own for Her," Shaw concludes at last, stalking towards Harold, grabbing his forearm, and dragging him forward with a newfound determination.

"Hello, what about me? _Shaw?_ " Control calls out, still bound to her chair.

Without missing a beat, and without turning around, Shaw responds, "You'll figure it out."

_________\ Cat and Mouse /________

With a final nod in the store clerk's direction, Shaw exits the run down pawn shop to the sound of a small bell chiming over head. She walks to the small Toyota, where Harold sits patiently in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead. Shaw yanks the door open, and before he has a chance to turn towards her, Shaw is already hauling him out of the car, carting him towards a small alleyway.

"May I ask what you're planning to do?" Harold asks, but Shaw doesn't respond. Instead, she walks them down the alleyway, stopping a few feet before the small path opens to a larger street. Almost no one walks by, but Shaw wouldn't have cared if the streets were as crowded as Fifth Avenue on New Year's Eve. No, the only thing she's focused on is the security camera perched on the brick building to their right, lens focused directly on them and red light blinking.

Dropping Harold's arm, Shaw holds the ancient revolver she'd just purchased up for the Machine, and then a single bullet.

"Harold might have taught you chess," Shaw speaks to the Machine with an eerie calm washing over her, "but I think it's about time you learned how to play Russian Roulette." At the name, Harold goes rigid, eyes plastered to Shaw as she brings the revolver down to her waist, spinning the cylinder and then pulling the hammer down. She points it at Harold, making sure to stay out of the way of the camera's line of sight. _Gotta make sure the Machine sees exactly what's going to happen._

"Ms. Shaw, _please_ -"

Shaw cuts him off with a single, sharp glare, then returns her attention to the security camera. "The point is that there is _one_ bullet in this gun. The first shot is usually relatively safe." With that, she pulls the trigger, and Harold flinches just as a heavy click echoes along the brick walls. Again, Shaw spins the cylinder, and cocks the weapon. "The rest are not. Now, you can either call Harold and tell us where Root is, or you can watch him die."

"This is ridiculous," Harold spits, nerves rattled as he tries to step away. Shaw snags the sleeve of his blazer with one hand, forcing him in place. Her mind wonders what the Machine is doing. If it's running through all the possible outcomes, all the probabilities of the bullet being in the chamber. If the Machine will decide to save his life, or let him perish.

"Five," Shaw begins to count down, eyes merciless on the camera. "Four," the red light continues to blink, and Shaw can almost swear it flickers faster with fear. "Three," Harold swallows hard, his eyes darting back and forth between Shaw, the gun, and the camera. "Two," Shaw's hand tightens around the grip, finger hovering over the trigger. "One."

_Click._

Shaw spins it, cocks it, aims it.

"Five, four, three, two, one."

_Click._

"You have two chances left, and one of them is putting lead through his skull," Shaw warns the Machine, growing more anxious. _What am I going to do if the Machine stays silent?_ "Five, four, three, two, one."

 _Click_.

Harold sighs, but it seems only to act as a way for him to take in one final breath. Shaw's teeth clench as she sets the revolver once more. "This is it," Shaw informs the Machine darkly. "Either you tell me now, or he dies. Five." Harold is silent, not pleading for his life; not pleading for the Machine to stay the course. "Four." Shaw feels her hands begin to tremble, feeling the hope of finding Root begin to drain by the second. "Three." Shaw's jaw is set, eyes murderous as all feeling escapes her, leaving only a hollow darkness in its place. "Two," she growls, finger already on the trigger. Harold closes his eyes, lips pressed tightly together as his shoulders tense.

Harold's cell phone rings.

Shaw freezes, eyes widening microscopically as Harold's own burst open, a stunned look crossing his face as he stares up at the camera. Then, snapping from the daze, he quickly rips the cell from his pocket, taking the call. He puts it on speaker, holding it out between them.

" _Sorry- for- the-- wait_ ," an automated set of voices intone. " _I- was-- look-ing- for- Ana--log- in-ter- face-- Root._ " Shaw's heart begins to pound in her chest as she leans towards the phone, mouth going dry. Silently, Shaw thanks Harold for programming the Machine with the ability to use more than NATO spelling this time around.

"Did you find her?" Shaw asks quickly, sharing a look with Harold before turning back to the phone.

" _Yes._ "

"Where is she," Shaw demands, an eagerness sinking into her skin and grabbing hold of her bones. _This is it._

" _Lat-it--ude Four-Two- Deg--rees. Four-Ze-ro- Minutes. One-Four Seconds_." Shaw, lowering the revolver, immediately begins to take it down in her cellphone. " _Lon- git--ude Seven-Five- Deg--rees. Five-Six- Minutes. Four-Nine Seconds._ " Then, the line dies, and Harold stares numbly at the phone as Shaw plugs the coordinates into a map. Dog Hollow Forest, State of New York.

Shaw begins to walk away, determination clogging her brain until she can think of nothing else.

"Ms. Shaw?" Harold calls, and she stops, turning to face him. He stares at her a moment, ice eyes filled with thought. "If you had reached one..."

"I would have pulled the trigger," Shaw responds, and Harold's face pales. She smiles, rooting into her pocket before fishing out a single bullet- the one that should’ve been in the gun. "Come on, Harold," she says with playful condescension, "I'm not the monster you think I am." With that, she spins away, heading down the street.

"I don't think that of you," he yells after her, feet planted to the ground- still in shock. "I think you're desperate, and that is a different beast _entirely_." Yet, Shaw doesn't listen, for she's already gone, hopping into the nearest car and toying with the wires.

"Hold on Root," Shaw breathes, hearing the engine rev to life. "I'm coming.”

______\ Person of Interest /______

The woods are a thick tangle of knotted tree branches and thorn bushes, and Shaw has to squeeze between dense tree trunks to slip into Dog Hollow. There is a full moon swimming in a clear sky, yet Shaw is unable to see it through the heavy canopy of leaves over head; not even the faint twinkle of a star touches the damp, earthy floor. Shaw, flashlight pointed down, steps carefully over broken branches and unruly messes of vines that slither along the ground, just waiting to tie themselves around her ankles. She barely breathes, not willing to make a single sound as she travels like a ghost through the forest, eyes scanning for any sort of building or hut or trap door. So far, she's come up empty handed.

From the moment she'd received Root's location, Shaw'd been driving the hours long journey to the northern reaches of New York. Here, it's significantly colder than Manhattan, and Shaw's breath evanesces into the air. Reese had tried to call her many times on the burner cell she'd picked up after breaking her own, but she never answered. There was no way in Hell he could talk her down from this one. _Not this time._

Shaw turns as the trees lessen, giving way to blinding moonlight, beginning her trek over again as she heads back into the woods, walking a line only a few feet from the last. She's canvasing the entire area, and after over two hours, she's beginning her way through the center strip of the woods. Once more, darkness envelops her, leaving the dim glint of a dying flashlight to guide her through.

For a long while there is nothing, only the quiet sounds of crickets and rustling tree branches, until a glint catches Shaw's eye. Stopping, she points her flashlight to the left, and the beam strikes against a white building caked with dirt and overtaken by vines, a single, silver door handle beckoning to her. Withdrawing her gun, Shaw crosses her arms at the wrists, ready for battle. Correction, ready to _end_ a battle.

Approaching the door, her heart flutters in her chest, adrenaline surging through her veins as every nerve ending ignites. She becomes hyperaware of the darkness, and the door, and how Root lies just behind it. Setting her teeth and flicking the safety off, Shaw forgets all her previous stealth, kicking at the door with all the force she can muster, sending it, contorted, from its hinges.

A thin layer of dust dances in the beam of light as Shaw swings it around the small space. Then, at the far wall, is a chair with someone doubled over on top of it. Dark strings of unkept hair curl down over her face, her hands are purple with bruises, and there's blood under her nails. Shaw knows exactly who she is.

Stowing away her weapon, Shaw all but throws herself across the room, kneeling before the chair and withdrawing a small pocket knife.

" _God_ , Root," Shaw hisses out under her breath. "You look like crap." Shaw brings the blade to Root's ankle, where a thick zip tie digs into Root's jeans. Snapping it in two, she works on the second.

"You shouldn't... be here," Root mumbles out, near unintelligibly, and Shaw stops. Peering back up to Root, Shaw pulls Root's head up gently to meet her eyes.

"I drove four hours to get here, and that's the _only_ thing you have to say to me?" Shaw asks her, a slight play to her voice at seeing Root after all this time. Busted lip, and bloody nose, and shut, purple rimmed eyes and all. "If you wanted to stay out here for a couple more days, too bad for you." Shaw begins work on the restraints that dig into Root's raw wrists, only to hear the click of a safety go off just behind her.

"That's not a smart move," Martine says as Shaw begins to reach towards her waistband. Shaw freezes, then slowly turns her face back to look at her longtime foe.

"Changed your hair?" Shaw asks her conversationally, all but ignoring the loaded gun cocked mere inches from her face as she takes in the golden hair pulled into a tight bun. Martine smiles, eyes glinting devilishly in the sparse light.

"The only reason I dyed my hair in the first place was to make you feel more at home," Martine responds smartly, and Shaw's lip twitches with the promise of a sneer.

"That's a shame," Shaw replies with false sympathy. "I always liked you better as a blonde." With movements too fast to be seen, Shaw pushes her hand forward, knocking Martine's gun to the side just as she begins to pull the trigger. The gun erupts with a burst of light and a deafening crack, leaving Shaw's right ear to ring, but she ignores it. Still forcing her hand up and out, Shaw feels the weapon slip from Martine's hand, clattering to the concrete floor a few feet away. Shaw stands, eyes dark and sneer cold as her hands ball into fists, ready to take this woman down.

Shaw reaches for her weapon, but with one swift kick to the wrist, Martine renders Shaw equally weaponless. For a silent moment, they stare at each other- sizing the other up. Shaw's mind furiously flashes with images of being strapped down to hospital beds, every inch of her body welling with pain. It flashes with images of Root's frail state.

"You thinking what I'm thinking?" Martine asks conversationally, devilish smirk on her lips. Shaw smiles a similar grin.

"I guess we'll have to find out," Shaw replies, then throws herself forward. Her fist connects roughly with the side of Martine's jaw, who stumbles back. Shaw bends her knees, hands up defensively. Martine rolls her jaw a few times before stalking forward. Martine throws a punch; Shaw catches it with her right hand. Martine throws another; Shaw catches it with her left. Then, both hands full, Martine pulls her knee up, letting it rip through Shaw's stomach. Wind knocked out of her, Shaw doubles over, dropping her hands just for Martine to use them to grab Shaw and throw her to the ground. Standing over her, Martine takes her time, leaning in close, extending her fingers towards Shaw's neck. _Wrong move_.

Hands darting forward, Shaw latches on to Martine's wrists, giving three quick kicks to Martine's abdomen before using her legs to push Martine up and over her, slamming her onto her back. Quickly, Shaw sits over her, throwing punch after punch at Martines face.

 _'Thump'_ Martine closes her eyes _'thump'_ she grinds her teeth _'thump'_ her nose begins to gush _'thump'_ her bottom lip breaks wide open. Suddenly, Martine rolls, knocking Shaw off as Martine instantly scampers to her feet, followed by Shaw. She gets a swift blow at Shaw's eye, and half her vision begins to swim. Teeth gritted in determination, Shaw advances again, the two sharing punches and kicks, blocking and dodging as many as possible. What's only been a few minutes feels like hours of constant battle, and Shaw feels the adrenaline kick up a notch, filling her veins with fire.

With a surge of energy, Shaw sends a round house kick to Martine's side, sending her backwards. She stumbles, trips, and falls onto her back with a sharp yelp. Shaw closes in on her unmoving form, ready to finish this once and for all, only to be greeted with a gun pointed between her eyes. Martine begins to sit up, mouth still a pained grimace, yet there is glee radiating from her and she never lets the gun leave Shaw.

"How's this," Martine says calmly, barely showing how winded she is, although her words are slightly slurred. "I can shoot you now, say... _here_." Martine lowers the gun to the center of Shaw's abdomen. "Three bullets there, so that way you can still watch me put _two_ in your girlfriend's _head_." Shaw can feel the rage manifesting in the pit of her stomach, growing so strong that it begins to rattle her bones and shatter her muscles.

"That still leaves one bullet," Shaw tells her, voice shaking with anger. "Are you saving that one for yourself?" Martine barks out a cruel laugh, although her eyes remain unamused as they bore intently into Shaw.

"No," she replies, simply. "That one, I'll leave for you. You can either use it on yourself, or don't, and bleed out instead. Your choice, really."

"How considerate of you," Shaw responds frostily, and Martine tilts her head playfully.

"It's a shame," she sighs, pulling herself up into a standing position. "There's no time for us to sit and chat. No catching up."

"I have _nothing_ to say to you," Shaw spits. Martine purses her lips.

"Well, I would have enjoyed telling you _all_ about Root, and all the things we did together. She broke a lot quicker than you, but- I mean- we can't really compare anyone else to _you_ , can we?" Shaw's hands ball into fists, and she wonders how much damage she could possibly wreak on Martine with three gut shots under her belt. If it'd still be possible to nail her to the wall and watch her die.

"Any last words?" Martine asks, relishing the moment.

"Just three," Shaw replies. "Go fuc-"

_'POP!'_

For one second in time, the world's rotation crawls at a snails pace, leaving Shaw to watch its events unfold agonizingly slow. Martine's eyes widening, mouth falling open as fear and dawning mix on her face. A bullet leaving her temple like a comet with a tail of blood and skull fragments. Martine's eyes rolling up as the blood continues to flow. She drops to her knees, wobbles there, then falls to the side, blood pooling around her head and staining her hair. Eyes wide open, alive just long enough after the fact to know her fate.

Then, with a single blink, the world revives itself, and time crashes back in. Turning, Shaw finds Root, still mostly doubled over, gun held out in the one hand Shaw had freed. _My gun, she has my gun._ It seems to be the only energy Root had left, for it drops to the floor only a moment later, Root’s hand flopping back down into her lap. Quickly, Shaw cuts the last restraint on Root's wrist, pushing Root's shoulders back just enough to look at her face.

Root's eyes are open now, and hollowed as they drift lazily over to Shaw. "I called killing that bitch two years ago," Root mutters, and Shaw smiles, pushing Root's unruly hair out of her face before attempting to pull Root to her feet. Root stumbles, knees buckling, and Shaw does her best to catch her, putting Root's arm around her shoulders and placing her own arm around Root's waist. Root's head rolls to the side, leaning unintentionally against Shaw's.

"Did the Machine tell you I was coming?" Shaw asks, hoping to distract Root from her withered fatigue.

"No," Root replies, voice strained and dry. "No service out here. Beeped a couple times earlier. Hurt my head." Shaw listens to her tired words, and pulls her closer, determined to get back to her car. Maybe drive her to the nearest food joint. Grab some medical supplies on the way. Some water. Again, Shaw tries to step forward, and again, Root tries to no avail.

The broken door, hanging shut by a single hinge, is kicked completely off it's frame as two men step in, one holding a flashlight and the other a gun. Shaw squints against the bright beam of light as it entirely eclipses the men. She has no weapon, nor a way to defend herself with all her efforts into keeping Root up. Still, she steels her stomach, ready to try anything it takes.

"Shaw? You both okay?" The low rumble of John Reese's voice is heaven to her ears, and she sighs in relief.

"Fine. She needs to get out of here, though," Shaw replies, gesturing to Root with her head. Coming over, Reese stops at the other side of Root, slowly pulling her weight onto him before lifting her up into his arms. Shaw takes the gun from him, noticing for the first time Harold, as he holds the flashlight. He gives her a short nod, and she returns it.

Trekking through the dense woods for a quarter hour, they finally emerge to see Shaw's hot wired car, and Reese's police issued SUV. Shaw opens the back door of his truck for Reese as he gently places Root down inside. Harold files into the passenger seat as Shaw and Reese walk around the car, he hopping in to drive, and she sliding in next to Root. She watches Root's face as she lays slumped against the seats, and moves a little closer, letting Root rest her head on her shoulder.

For a small while, they drive in silence, leaving Shaw to wonder what exactly Martine did to Root. _Two weeks can be an eternity if you play the cards right._ They crash over a large bump in the road, and Root groans.

"Everything alright?" Shaw asks her quietly, unsure how else to go about it. There are a million questions buzzing through Shaw's head, from medical status to personal well being, but Shaw hasn't the words for any of them.

"Everything's fine, Sam," Root replies, and Shaw rolls her eyes, although there's a flood of relief none the less. _Root's back, and she's alive, and she's safe._

"Did you find Martine there?" Reese asks, eyes flickering to the rear view mirror to look at Shaw. Seeing her with Root, the corners of his eyes crinkle with a smile.

"Yeah," Shaw responds.

"And?" He prompts, turning back onto the highway. Shaw takes a moment, peering over at Root, then bringing her eyes back to Reese in the mirror, a definitive resolution surfaces in her features.

"Martine Rousseau is dead."


End file.
